


Asphodels

by assuwatar



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Death, Gen, because why write happy stories when you can write about the underworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 15:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18101624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assuwatar/pseuds/assuwatar
Summary: Hermes tells how the meadow of ashes became the meadow of asphodels. Originally written for the City Dionysia 2018.





	Asphodels

**Author's Note:**

> There is a theory that the ‘meadow of asphodels’ (asphodelon) in Homer was originally a ‘meadow of ashes’ (spodelon), but that the phrase was changed with time. This is my take on who changed it and why.

Muse, don’t sing this story. Let the mortals hear about many-eyed Argos instead, or how I rode through the night with Priam, or the one Apollon likes to complain about most, how I stole his cattle as a newborn. But don’t sing the beginning. Don’t tell them how I was born in a cave, and from my cradle I could see the shades of the Dead slipping by.

Sit with me for a while, Muse. Lay your lyre down. It’s enough just to sit with you on this mountainside, in the bright morning sun, and watch the sea blur into the sky. After so many caves, the light almost hurts my eyes – a strange thing for an Olympian God, don’t you think? Mortals are the ones who are supposed to go out and back into the darkness, not us. Zeus made these peaks our home so we could live forever in the sun. He forgets that some of us are meant to go underground.

No, I don’t talk to Persephone much. I’m never down there long enough to share a cup of unmixed wine. Hades watches me sometimes with his eyes like diamonds, and I laugh and I say that his kingdom is a grim one, and he almost smiles and tells me _at least you can leave_. I wonder if he knows that some things never leave. Asklepios cleans the blood off me each time I come up, but he can’t wash away the voices. The pleading. The tears.

Oh, I don’t mean to frighten you – it’s not your load to carry, anyway. Your hands were made for stories and songs. Did you know my shepherds sing them while they take their flocks out to the hills? My tradesmen tell them to each other, too, when their journeys are long. I hear your voice everywhere, sweet Muse. Apollon is right about one thing, at least: it does make our work a little easier to bear.

Yes, of course I remember the lines I gifted you. Αἶψα δ’ ἵκοντο κατὰ σποδελὸν λειμῶνα, ἔνθα τε ναίουσι ψυχαί, εἴδωλα καμόντων – and soon they reached the meadow of ashes, where dwell the souls, shadows of the outworn. Hades didn’t like that I’d told the mortals this. But they deserve to have these words, if nothing else; they’re curious, and they don’t like not knowing. Even on the way down, they ask me questions. _Why do we have to pay the ferryman? Will I remember my lover? Why aren’t we immortal like you?_ Sometimes I’m glad I’m not supposed to answer. Once, a girl asked me if there are things even I don’t understand.

The ashes. They’re what gets to me most. They catch in my throat, and they taste like things you shouldn’t name. I can’t help but wonder how mortals are burnt belly-up under the stars, but where I lead them after that, there’s only fields of coal-black darkness. It’s a kind of contradiction. Why is there no light where you need it the most?

Well, I did ask Hades about it, but he grumbled something about Fate and I knew Persephone had just left again, so I gave my usual smile and let him be. That morning, I came out the mouth of a cave in Eleusis, and Persephone was dancing among the flowers with her mother. Springtime, the mortals were calling it. There were petals like stars under her feet. Muse, don’t berate me for what I did; you know I’m a God of robbers, and happy people don’t need as many flowers as those who are shadows of themselves. And you should’ve seen the children’s smiles when I told them they weren’t going κατὰ σποδελὸν λειμῶνα, but κατ’ ἀσφοδελὸν λειμῶνα instead.

It doesn’t take much of the ache away. You’ve seen my heavy shoulders now, and my eyes squinting at the sun. I had to hold out my hands for Asklepios to dry again today. I know, no matter how many stars I give them, the mortals who walk with me, or who watch me pass, will always ask questions. Don’t sing the answer, Muse. Time will take care of that himself, breaking them open and sewing it into them when the right moment comes. But you can sing, if you want, about the meadow of asphodels.

It’s a kind morning, isn’t it? The earth is warm, and your skin is so golden. Maybe we’ll find each other sitting here again sometime. Maybe next time there’ll be a little less ashes, and a little more flowers. Either way, I’ll be listening for your voice.


End file.
